


here for you

by telm_393



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Episode: s03e06 Motel California, Friendship, Gen, Mental Health Issues, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telm_393/pseuds/telm_393
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott is dripping with gasoline, and Stiles just wants to get him clean.</p><p>As if a shower will fix anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here for you

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for this fandom, so. Hi. :)

The smell of gasoline is absolutely overpowering in this tiny bathroom, and Stiles can’t imagine what it must be like for somebody with werewolf senses.

The idea of Scott literally pouring gasoline over himself is enough to make Stiles gag, but he doesn’t. He has to be strong for now, has to ignore the part where he almost died, _again,_ because it’s only just sinking in.

At the moment, he hadn’t been thinking about dying.

He’d been thinking about saving Scott’s life.

He tries not to think of the almost mind-numbing terror that he's felt when he saw Scott standing with that flare in his hand, that flare that was supposed to snap him out of this. He tries not to think about the way Scott’s voice was shaking, the way he cried, the way he sounded so completely convinced that he was doing The Right Thing.

The worst part of all of this is that Stiles knows that it wasn’t just the wolfsbane.

He knows Scott well enough to realize that the wolfsbane acted differently on him or something, or maybe he even snapped out of it by the end, because it was really fucking obvious that maybe, yeah, the wolfsbane was the trigger, but the voice in Scott’s head that was telling him to kill himself, it wasn’t a stranger like Stiles had made it out to be.

It was _Scott,_ some part of him that Stiles doesn’t know very well yet, some part that was amplified but that existed, that probably still exists, some part that thinks that every shitty thing that’s happened in this town is his fault, and that’s not _fair._

Scott is seventeen years old.

He shouldn’t be taking on the weight of the world, because all it’s going to do is drive him crazy.

 _Maybe he’s already going crazy,_ Stiles thinks before beating that thought into submission as quickly as possible.

He has no time to…no time to _angst._

Because Scott is covered in gasoline and just kind of standing in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror like he’s looking a stranger, and Stiles needs to get him clean.

For some reason, he feels like that might help, somehow, and he’s pretty sure he’s just deluding himself, because just because Scott’s not covered in gasoline doesn’t mean he won’t want to set himself on fire, but Stiles isn’t going to think about those things.

He’s going to be strong, now.

He doesn’t say anything, because he’s been crying and his voice is probably wrecked, but he gently makes Scott look away from the mirror and manages to manhandle his best friend out of his clothes, which would be way more awkward in any other situation, and into the shower.

The Glen Capri is a piece of shit, but the showers are big enough for one person to sit in, and Stiles is glad for at least that tiny little thing, because Scott immediately slides to his knees like he’s just way too tired to stay upright, and Stiles follows suit, his knees crashing against the bathroom tiles painfully.

He’s all scraped up.

He and Scott and Lydia and Allison had been lying on the ground for a long time, until Stiles finally got up because he couldn’t stand the smell anymore, couldn’t stand the greasy feeling of gasoline on his hands.

Stiles fumbles with the knobs for a second, and then he turns the hot water up until it’s scalding.

Scott flinches at the heat, and it hurts Stiles’s hands really bad, but he doesn’t turn the cold water on.

Stiles and Scott sit there for a little while, both of them pretending they’re not crying. Stiles is better at it.

They’ve both had a lot of practice.

Stiles eventually grabs the tube of shampoo a shaken Lydia gave him a while after he half picked Scott up, with help from Allison, and wrinkled his nose and announced that he was going to get Scott cleaned up, as if Scott had just stumbled into a puddle of gasoline.

Stiles closes his eyes and he can see it, the gasoline overpowering all of Scott’s senses, getting into his mouth, his eyes, puddling around him, and Scott _not caring._

Stiles shakes away the images, because he can’t fall apart now, because Scott needs somebody to take care of him, and Stiles has always done his best to step up and be that person, because Scott’s always done his best to be that person for him.

They were two kids with single parents who worked a lot. It made sense to protect each other, to be each other’s…everything, or almost-everything. To be brothers.

Stiles squeezes shampoo onto his hand and manages not to spill too much before he starts working it through Scott’s stringy hair, which still smells faintly of gasoline, despite the water managing to scour away a lot of the stuff.

Stiles is afraid that the smell will never go away.

This moment is almost peaceful, and Stiles embraces that.

The shampoo smells like lavender. Like Lydia. It’s comforting.

When all of the shampoo and as much of the gasoline as is possible has been washed down the drain, Stiles turns off the water and Scott gets out of the shower without much prompting, barely wiping himself down with the towels before putting on the change of clothes Stiles had the presence of mind to grab from his duffle bag.

Water drips down Scott’s face, and the sight makes Stiles’s stomach lurch for some reason, so he grabs another towel and dries off Scott’s face and hair as best as he can.

(Stiles is seventeen, but he feels older than that _._ No, scratch that, really he just feels _old._ )

Then they’re in the hotel room again, and Scott finally talks. “I don’t want to be here,” he says hoarsely.

Stiles nods, dizzy with relief that at least Scott’s talking again because that’s something, and says, “Amen.”

But they’ve got nowhere else to sleep, except, well. The bus. Which doesn’t seem like a comfortable place to rest at all.

But between the school bus and this fucking motel room, Stiles will take the bus any day, so he starts heading out, Scott trailing behind him.

And then Scott stops, and Stiles stops almost immediately after, turning to look at his best friend. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, because there’s no good answer to that question.

“I’m sorry,” Scott says in a small voice, and Stiles has the sudden urge to hit him, which is almost immediately replaced with the urge to start sobbing.

He doesn’t.

He’s listened to Scott apologize for things that weren’t his fault a million different times, and he knows that Scott won’t listen to _don’t say that_ or _it’s not your fault_ or anything like that. So instead he says, “It’s okay.”

There’s a look in Scott’s eyes like he wants to smile, and that’s enough for now.

They walk to the bus, past the tendrils of smoke that would have made Scott start wheezing horribly less than a year ago and collapse into seats, stretching out, and Stiles takes deep breaths. It smells like lavender and nicotine, and, under that, gasoline.

Stiles thinks that for the rest of his life, under every single smell, there will be gasoline.

There was this part of Stiles that thought that maybe he could wash this night away, but now that Scott’s clean, nothing’s really changed.

Stiles is still terrified.


End file.
